


How to be in two places at the same time

by littlerhymes



Category: Bandom, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe, Doppelganger, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-28
Updated: 2008-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you could split yourself in two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to be in two places at the same time

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to proteinscollide for beta reading!

  
**2008: Bill and Trav's Bogus Journey Tour**

It's the middle of the night before Halloween. The bus has stopped for gas when Sisky wakes up to a cackling laugh and a weight pressing down on his ribs.

"What the fuck?" he shouts. He's tangled in the sheets and falls out of bed with a thump, along with whatever's sitting on his chest. There's another wicked cackle, followed by rapidly thudding footsteps and the sound of the tour bus door slamming shut. Whoever it was, they're gone. Okay, so everyone on the bus is probably awake by now. "Lights," he says, "someone hit the lights please?"

"Shut up, Sisky," William groans but the Butcher obliges. Siska sits up and pushes away what turns out to be a full-sized pumpkin. In its side is carved an elaborately snaggle-toothed grin. There's only one person he knows who'd do something that crazy.

"Santi," he mutters to himself before raising his voice to a yell. "Carden, your fucking alter ego just scared the shit out of me!"

From the bunk above, Mike just laughs. He stops when the Butcher throws a pillow at his head. "Don't be an asshole, Carden."

"Thank you, Butcher," Siska says with great dignity, hitching up his boxers.

The Butcher smiles sleepily from his bunk, scratching at his beard. "Any time, Sisky Biz."

"Hey, could everyone shut up and go back to sleep now?" William says loudly. "I have to get up for an interview in three hours! And so does Chiz!"

Right on cue there's a snore from Michael Guy's bunk - he's a really sound sleeper.

But it _is_ late, so Siska leaves the pumpkin on the floor and crawls back into his narrow bunk. He's asleep again within minutes.

It's pretty poetic when Mike stubs his toe on the pumpkin on his way to the bathroom the next morning. "Fucking Santi," he groans, hopping around on one foot, and it's Siska's turn to laugh.

There's no telling when Santi will show up on tour with his shaggy-dog hair and feral smile, to stay for a day or a month before disappearing again. Some alters can't stand the sight of each other but Mike and Santi get along fine. A few times Mike even hands Santi his guitar, saying, "How about if you play tonight? No one's gonna know."

"Oh, _yeah_." Santi grins and lopes on stage without waiting to be asked twice.

Maybe no one in the crowd notices but the band can tell. It's not that he's better or worse than Mike. Just wilder, looser. Just different.

Afterwards Santi will sit with them at the bar, downing drinks with both hands as he tells them about getting chased by the police in the slums of Rio, helping scientists tag endangered parrots in New Mexico. It's hard to tell how much is bullshit or for real. Any time Sisky tries to pin him down ("Come on now," he says, half-laughing, "a Vegas showgirl? While you were wearing a clown suit? Really?") Santi just gives him a mad-eyed stare, or cracks up, or both.

Funniest of all is when they sit side by side, Mike and Santi, their bodies echoed, left ankles resting on right knees, beer glasses raised in right hands. They even like to dress the same.

"You're like Tweedledum and Tweedledee," William says, a little tipsy, leaning over to tweak their ears.

Mike lazily swats William's hand away. But Santi tips his head back and pretends to bite, teeth snapping shut next to William's fingers.

  


  


**2006: Truckstops and Statelines Tour**

The Butcher finds him after the set, when everyone's packing up. "Hey, Sisky," he says, with that easy tilt of his head. "Wanna take a road trip?"

"Dude, you don't have a license," Adam says.

"I know." Butcher throws him a set of keys. "That's why you're driving."

The Butcher grabs his hand and pulls him in the direction of the exit, past the rest of the band and crew. "What are you two up to this time?" Mike says suspiciously, while William just watches them go with an amused smile.

The Butcher puts a finger to his lips, grinning wolfishly. "It's a secret."

They pull out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. The Butcher slips a cd into the player and they speed through factory wastelands to drum and bass beats, Butcher rapping on the dashboard with his knuckles.

"Where are we going?" Siska asks again after a few more miles, not that the answer particularly matters. It's enough to be doing this, to be the only one the Butcher takes along for the ride.

The Butcher just pats his knee and says, "You'll find out. Take the next exit."

They pull off the freeway into an industrial area on the outskirts of the city proper. Butcher directs left, left, right without hesitation. "There," he says, pointing towards a graffiti-covered warehouse on a dead-end street, "pull up here."

As soon as the warehouse doors open, there's a blast of music, beats, voices. Inside it's packed and humid. The crowd jostles around a cleared circle, as one b-boy backs off and another swaggers up to take the centre. They find a place near the front, where it's so crowded everyone's standing practically hip to hip. When someone bumps them from behind the Butcher slips his arm around Adam's waist to steady himself, and leaves it there. It's nice.

"Just in time," the Butcher says into his ear, his breath tickling. "That's Bishop," he says, pointing to the second guy.

That's when Siska realises, _oh_. Bishop is Butcher's alter - even if Butcher hadn't pointed him out, Siska could've recognised that wiry frame and angular face from a million miles, in the dark.

He's the first one in the band to ever see Bishop in the flesh. The realisation gives him a sweet, pleased flutter in his stomach. He can't resist leaning into the Butcher's side to whisper, "This is so awesome," and watches the Butcher's face break into an answering smile.

When he looks away, Bishop's in a headspin and it's pretty fucking amazing, no lie. He's never seen the Butcher dance like this - all windmills and spins and flares and handstands - though he can see something of the Butcher in Bishop's energy, the effortless rhythm.

When Bishop ends on an awesome freeze, the crowd's totally amped and calling for more. He steps out of the circle and slaps hands with his crew, grinning widely. Turning, Bishop sees them through the crowd. He tilts his chin up and waves, and the Butcher waves back but neither of them seems in any hurry to actually talk to the other.

After a moment Butcher squeezes him around the waist and says, "Come on, Sisky. Let's go."

He looks back once as they leave but Bishop's already gone, disappeared into the crowd. Whatever deal they have, it's obviously nothing like Mike and Santi's rough and ready friendship. In a way, it almost seems more precious, like he's been given a glimpse of something secret and unspoken.

Outside the warehouse, Siska impulsively pulls the Butcher into a hug. "Thanks for bringing me tonight," he says. "That was so cool."

"It was nothing, man," the Butcher mutters, looking down at his own feet like he's embarrassed.

They start walking back to the car, elbows bumping.

"Hey," the Butcher says suddenly. "You know what I just remembered? I've got this car for twenty-four hours." He gives Sisky a sly sideways glance. "Think about it."

Dance moves are one thing, but the Butcher is something else altogether. There's no doubt in Adam's mind as to which Andy Mrotek is better.

"Yeah?" He jingles the keys in his pocket, pulling a long face like he's still making up his mind. Tony's gonna kill them but he's pretty sure it will be worth it. "How far do you think the beach is from here anyway?"

"Dude, we've got to find out," the Butcher says very seriously.

They exchange looks and crack up, and then they're racing each other towards the car. It's pretty much gonna be the best night ever, Siska can already tell.

  


  
  


**2001: Barrington, Chicago**

They meet when Adam is thirteen. William is sixteen, and already split.

"Hey, is it okay if my little brother comes to band practise today?" Jason says as he drives them back to William's place after school. "He's got soccer and I said I'd give him a ride home."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," William says absently, busy flicking through a magazine.

He doesn't think much of it until a few hours later when a gangly kid comes down into the basement, saying, "Hey Jason, I'm hungry, when are we going-" He sees William behind the drum kit and shuts up abruptly.

"Hi." William waves a drum stick tentatively. "You must be Adam. I think your brother's just gone upstairs for a minute. I'm, um. I'm William."

"Yeah," Adam says, "I know."

Word gets around when you're one of the only alters in school. Two months gone, and William's _almost_ used to the whispers and sideways glances.

He was young, for sure, but he had the symptoms and the doctors said there was no point waiting or trying to delay it with medication. His parents agreed though they made a point of insisting that he got it done surgically at a top hospital.

People ask him, did it hurt? Did it feel strange? It was honestly the easiest thing in the world. He went to hospital, they shaved his head and stuck a needle in his arm, and he went to sleep. When he woke up again he was two, William and Bill.

There was never anything to discuss. Both of them just knew. Before they'd even left the hospital, Bill was talking about baseball scholarships and college applications, while William scribbled down lyric ideas during the long car ride home.

"I saw you playing at, like, the school thing with Jason." Adam nods a few times, folds his arms and unfolds them again. His ears, Williams notes curiously, are going bright red. "That was pretty cool. Your solo was mad."

"Oh." He's a little surprised. "Thanks!" And honestly - he's more than a little pleased.

For the past couple of months Bill's been in the limelight: baseball star and head of the class. William gave up wanting all that when they split, yeah, but he didn't give up _wanting_. So maybe Bill's getting to where he needs to be a little faster than William. So maybe that gives William more incentive to catch the fuck up.

Adam settles down on the couch, obviously in no rush to leave.

"So, umm." William thumps the bass drum a couple of times just to cover the silence and then out of politeness asks, "Do you play anything? Drums, guitar...?"

"Oh." Adam shifts on the couch. "Oh yeah. Yeah. For sure. I'm like a totally wicked bassist."

"Really?" William says, genuinely interested, starting to tap out a beat. "That's awesome. Because we were just starting to look for a new bassist." He's already starting to plan it out. If Jason's okay with it, and then maybe if they find another guitarist-

"Alright, that was a lie. I don't play," Adam blurts out. Now it's not just his ears that are red, though his look is more cocky than embarrassed. "But I could learn. And in the meantime I could, like, be your roadie or something."

"Okay." William thinks it through, keeping the beat steady, starting to smile. "Okay. That could work."

  


  
  


**2005: Zippo Tour**

They hit the bar after the show and after a few drinks he and Butcher and Siska end up outside having a smoke.

Or, more accurately, he and the Butcher drink and smoke, while Siska makes do with a cola and some gum. Before the tour Mike promised Siska's mom he'd take care of him, and Mike always keeps his promises.

"So, Mike. How'd it happen?" the Butcher says. Meaning the split, of course. It's been like a week and people won't stop hassling him about it, like it's such a huge deal or whatever. "And don't you give us that bullshit you've been telling everyone else, man. We want the truth."

"Yeah," Siska chimes in right on time, like any good sidekick. "Give it up, Carden."

"Dudes." He lights up another cigarette and shrugs, putting the lighter away in his pocket. "It's a really boring fucking story."

"Tell us anyway," Adam demands. "Come on, Mike, don't be a dick. This is _research_ , I have to find out about this shit in case it happens to me. Come on, come on, come on!"

"Fine," he says with a sigh, rolling his eyes. "It happened like this.

"Me and Gabanti are out partying. We get high as fucking kites and decide to go out into the desert - why, I don't even know - so we hire a limo and drive out for like hours into the middle of nowhere."

"Sweet." The Butcher nods appreciatively. "That's classy, man."

"We get out there, you know, and it's the middle of the fucking desert, just like sand and rocks and sky. And I'm tripping, right, so I reach out like this-" and he demonstrates, holding his glass of beer aloft, "thinking I can pull down the sun or something. Like it's an orange on a tree.

"So I'm looking at my hand and I'm looking at the sun and suddenly I realise my one hand has turned into _two_ hands, like double vision. So I say, Gabanti, get a load of this, I have two hands!

"And he says, of course you have two hands, in this like hissing kind of voice, and I turn around to say, two _left_ hands, smartass - and that's when I see it's not Gabanti. That's when I realise Gabanti has completely disappeared and I'm not talking to Gabanti at all." He pauses dramatically.

"Who was it?" Adam says eagerly. "What the fuck did you see out there?"

"Shhh," he says, pretending to look around for eavesdroppers before beckoning them closer. Closer. Closer still. "It wasn't Gabanti that was talking to me," he says in a hoarse, strained whisper. "It wasn't Gabanti. It was," and he takes a deep breath before yelling right into their ears, "A GIANT FUCKING COBRA."

The Butcher jumps and drops his beer. He looks down at the foam on his shoes and then back up with a wounded expression.

"Ha ha ha," Adam says, grimacing and rubbing at his ear. "Not funny, Mike. You just deafened your fucking rhythm section, that was a bad move."

"Had you both going though, didn't I? And by the way," he says, reaching out to flick the end of Siska's nose, "I'm not Mike. I'm Santi."

Santi laughs too long and too loud at the looks on their faces. Then he drains his beer, throws the empty glass into the road where it smashes and glitters like crystal beneath the street lights.

"I'm not Mike, and I do whatever the fuck I like," he says, grinning widely. "So you can forget that cola shit, Sisky. I'm gonna buy you a _real_ drink. You too, Butcher," he adds. "Sorry about your beer, man."

"Sweet," the Butcher says again, easy-going as always. "Meet you guys at the bar." He squeezes Siska's shoulder before he leaves and, goddamn, the way Siska's head swivels to watch him go - Santi has to laugh.

After the Butcher leaves, Siska turns back to Santi and folds his arms. "Okay, so I'll take your drink-"

"Gee, thanks," he says drily, blowing out a smoke ring.

"-but first you've got to tell me one thing, and you've got to be _honest_ , okay? Or else I'm telling Mike that you offered to buy me alcohol and he will kick your _ass_."

That threat's not idle. He gives Adam an approving look. "Shoot," Santi says, tapping ash from the end of his cigarette.

"Okay. So..." And the bravado goes out of him as quickly as it came. "What did it feel like? I mean. When it happened." Siska shuffles on his feet nervously and shrugs. "It's just - some people say it hurts, you know. And I just want to know."

"What?" Santi stares for a moment then lets out a howl of laughter. "Fuck no. Fuck no, it didn't hurt. Jeez, Sisky." He shakes his head. "You don't even know yet if you're alter. Don't be so scared."

"Fuck you, I'm not _scared_!" He scowls but it just makes him look younger. "I'm just _curious_."

"Who told you that it hurts?" Santi says curiously. Then he shakes his head, grinning. "Never mind. Come on," he says, and pinches Siska's ear fondly. "Let's get wasted."

  


  


**2005: _Slow Down_ video shoot, Los Angeles**

They're in between takes, just Siska and Michael Guy hanging out in Butch's lounge room. William's getting his hair touched up, while Carden and Tom have wandered off to find liquid refreshment. The Butcher is having a swim.

"Hey, Michael Guy. Can I ask - what was it like?" Siska says around a mouthful of pizza, "when you split?"

Michael Guy strums a chord, pretending not to hear.

"Michael?" Siska says, loudly.

He sighs, silencing the strings with his hand. He pushes his hat back and says, "Really, Sisky?"

Siska is a good kid. He knows that already, just from a few days of hanging around with him and the rest of the guys. They're all good people. It's just - the split isn't something he talks about much. It's too personal, too raw.

"Really," Siska says firmly. He shrugs. "I'm seventeen, you know? If I'm alter, it could happen any day now. I know it's meant to be different for everyone but - I just want to know as much as I can. Just in case."

A good enough reason. Maybe it would've helped if he'd known what was happening or had an idea of what to expect. He looks back down at the strings again, and strums another few chords.

"Yeah," Michael Guy says at last. "Yeah, well, it hurt. For a little while, anyway."

 **2004: Silverlake, Los Angeles (via Sydney and London)**

Los Angeles is hot like home. The sky's as blue and the sand just as white, and the sun beats down on his neck and shoulders with the same dry intensity.

But Michael could never mistake LA for Sydney, not in a million years. It's more than just the accents and the food. It's the way everyone talks like they're on their way to somewhere else, to _being_ somebody else. And he can count himself in with those hopeful ones, those wannabes.

It's been six months now of going from studio to studio with his banged-up guitar case looking for work. 'Work' means laying down riffs and lines someone else composed; and usually it's followed by weeks of no work at all. He scrapes by, eking out just enough for rent and food - not much food, sometimes.

It's not exactly the dream, but for the first time ever _this_ is the day job - these frets, these strings, the music for its own sake and nothing else - and that's got to mean something. Music's why he left Australia in the first place.

But there's moments when he's suddenly so homesick it's like a hole in the pit of his stomach, when he doubts his own purpose and whether it's all worth it. It's those times that he finds himself calling home, desperate for familiar voices and old stories.

"Your band's sounding alright," he says on one late night call to his old mate Luke, stretched out on the couch he's been using for a bed. "How's the demo going? Still putting it off? You could've recorded it three times by now."

"Yeah, yeah, hold your horses, we're getting there." He can imagine Luke rolling his eyes. "Come back and play with us, and we'll see how it goes."

They both laugh but - the offer's there.

The next day he goes to a crowded net cafe. Joel's emailed again, the message ending with:

 _united's going great... flat out organising shows next year for uk conference tour, will be mostly arenas. i know god has other plans for you right now but plans can change... so think about it, it will be like old times! marty and the boys say hi... talk soon... peace. jth._

It's not like he doesn't consider it. If he flew back to Sydney tomorrow, he could be playing with Luke and Joel by Saturday - and, he admits to himself, handing in his McDonald's application by Monday. Unless United goes full time or Luke's band gets a _lot_ bigger, there's almost no way he could make it as a professional musician back in Sydney without taking a day job.

And avoiding a day job was the whole point of moving to LA, wasn't it?

So he wavers and doubts and worries himself through six months, never quite making up his mind about whether it's best to stay or go.

Then he meets Butch Walker.

It starts as an audition that turns into a jam session that turns into a conversation while outside the sun falls over Los Angeles and the shadows grow long. Butch is dark-eyed and lithe and sarcastic, full of stories of the cities he's played, the people he's worked with, the whole rock star life. He even manages to say Les Paul is an alright guy and Lindsay Lohan's a fucking diva without sounding like he's boasting.

Michael's flattered despite himself when those sharp eyes look him over and seem to find him okay. He feels himself flush when Butch says he must get a lot of play, a guy like him, with the accent and all. "Nah, I'm not," stumbling slightly over the words and feebly settling for, "shut up." Butch just laughs.

When the studio finally throws them out they head down to the bar on the corner, a regular hangout for local musicians and starving artists. "What's your poison?" Butch says, drumming his fingers on the bar.

"I'm right," Michael says automatically, the phrase he'd have used back in Sydney. Butch gives him a puzzled look. "I mean, no thanks."

"Aw, come on," Butch says, cracking the smile he later learns is hard to resist at the best of times. "You're not gonna let me drink on my own, are you?"

He hesitates a second. "Okay, maybe just one."

So they down their drinks, get into a heated discussion over the merits of Gretsch versus Fender, put Billy Idol's White Wedding on the jukebox for laughs. And maybe they have another drink, Michael insisting on getting this round, and maybe another.

It's late when Butch slings a tattooed arm around his shoulders and suggests going back to his place in Malibu. "How about it? Wanna come over and check out my guitar collection?" Butch leers exaggeratedly but the way he looks sideways says he could be serious, if Michael wants him to be.

The offer's not unexpected but Michael still feels himself going red, the blood pounding in his veins, his heart running a marathon. Unconsciously he reaches up to the silver cross concealed beneath his shirt. He hesitates, caught in two minds.

Butch's arm is still around his shoulders, warm and heavy. "Come on," he says, low and soft in Michael's ear. "You wanna get out of here?"

The invitation's not even halfway ambiguous anymore, and _fuck it_ , Michael wants this. He pulls his hand away from the chain around his neck and places it on Butch's waist instead, their bodies turning towards one another. Butch leans in to close the gap, and Michael closes his eyes as their mouths meet, even as he thinks _it can't be this easy_.

"Jesus, you're hot," Butch mumbles into the side of his neck as they fumble in the back of the taxi, and it's true, everywhere Butch touches him feels like it's on fire. His whole skin is too tight, too heated, feverish, his vision blurry.

Inside the mansion, he can't get his clothes off fast enough. Butch seems to think that's just fine, grinning as he strips off his own shirt. But when they touch, Butch hisses slightly and pulls back. "Are you okay? You're fucking burning up."

"I'm good," Michael says, swaying on his feet, "I'm-" he breaks off, shivering, and buckles to his knees. Butch, swearing, helps him down onto the cool wood-panelled floor where he lies flat on his back and panting.

"Michael?" Butch says. His voice is distant, like he's talking from a place very far away. "Michael. Shit, you're triggering."

Pain ripples from his toes up to the very top of his scalp and he is dimly aware that he's crying out, his back arching. Then as soon as it came the pain's gone, and he collapses again with a jolt.

"Fuck," Butch says and straddles him, pinning him to the floor between his thighs, his hands on Michael's shoulders. "You're gonna be fine, Michael," he says urgently, sternly. "Just relax. Do you hear me, Michael? You're fighting it too hard so I'm gonna help you, okay, just stay with-"

This time the pain's like a tidal wave that takes his entire body. He thrashes and bucks but is held fast by Butch, steady above him.

When he surfaces, gasping, Butch's hands are on his chest and if his touch was hot before, now it's like he's searing holes into Michael's skin.

"Come on," Butch says roughly, resting his forehead against Michael's. "Just let go," he whispers against Michael's mouth. "Trust me."

 _Trust me_ , he says, and Michael does. He swallows down his terror and lets himself fall.

Butch touches him here, and here, and here. The pain eases and ebbs and is replaced by a keen buzz that builds and builds until he's desperate for release. He sobs and it seems he hears an echo, a second voice behind his own.

When he looks down he sees Butch's hands white-hot against his torso and then somehow, impossibly, Butch's hands are slipping _beneath_ his skin without ever breaking the surface. Butch pushes in deep, so deep. He feels Butch's fingers close around the place where his heart must be and oh Jesus there's light coming from inside him, welling out around Butch's wrists like mercury. He has to close his eyes against the brightness.

That's when Butch's hands twist and Michael splits wide open, becoming a thousand fragments hurtling through space and time, pinwheeling and falling and broken.

But he's not alone. _Stay with me_ , Butch says with his hands and voice and mouth, _come back to me_.

He does. He came apart beneath Butch's hands; and so he's put back together. Piece by splintered piece. Those sure hands molding him into a pattern both familiar and new, into two.

And then it's over.

Michael draws in a ragged breath. He feels like he could sleep for a week and every limb and muscle is sore - but it's a sweet, satisfied kind of ache. He opens his eyes, thinking, this is how it must feel to be born.

Butch stumbles to the floor beside Michael with an _oof_. "Welcome to the world," he says, rasping out a laugh. "Both of you."

Michael turns his head to the side, already knowing what he'll see: his double, his second self, his alter. One soul divided, separate but whole. Michael reaches out and so does Michael Guy. Their hands meet palm to palm, mirroring.

After a moment his alter looks away, propping himself up an elbow to smile at Butch. "Thanks," Michael Guy says, smiling and shy.

Butch wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and grins back. "No problem. I do this shit all the time."

Lying on the floor between them, Michael has the sneaking feeling he could leave right now, and both Michael Guy and Butch would barely notice.

Whereas Michael - well, he can remember wanting Butch, wanting to say _yes_. Yet that desire must be just one of those parts he gave up to Michael Guy, 'cause when he looks at Butch now he barely feels anything at all. That's the deal when you split.

One week later, Michael flies home to Australia. _Plans change_ , as Joel said, and the place in Luke's band is still open. He doesn't regret his time in LA but since the split he knows exactly where he belongs, what he wants to do.

Michael Guy insists on driving him to LAX and Butch tags along to see him off. He shakes hands with Butch while Michael Guy gives him a tentative hug. Still feeling out each other's boundaries, he and Michael Guy aren't friends exactly, not yet. Some alters never are - pulled too far in opposite directions, different fates.

"Well," Michael says at last when they call his flight to Sydney. He shoves his hands into his pockets. "Guess I'll see you around."

Michael Guy gives him a little wave and for a moment Michael almost feels sorry for him, staying behind in a city where he has no family, no history, no home, following a dream that might never become a reality.

Then Butch puts his arm around Michael Guy's shoulders and Michael thinks to himself, ha, yeah, Michael Guy's probably gonna be okay.

When he's through the gate he looks back one last time. Already they're walking away in the opposite direction, out of the terminal and towards the bright LA sun.

  


  
  


  
**2006: _Santi_ sessions, Los Angeles**

The band's in the studio working with Butch Walker when Bill and Christine announce their engagement. Courtney calls William with the news and as everyone slowly catches on to what's happening the room goes very quiet.

After hanging up William throws his cell at the wall, grabs his jacket, and walks out the door. Siska runs after him but by the time he reaches the street, William's hopped a taxi and is out of sight.

Mike shakes his head. "Forget it, Sisky," he says. "No matter what we say or do, he's gonna go out, get wasted, get fucked, whatever."

He frowns. "But-"

"Come on." Butcher takes him by the arm and steers him back inside. "He'll be back, Sisky. It'll be just like that time with Tom."

'That time' was two months ago, when they officially gave Tom his notice. William disappeared then too, around the time Carden and Conrad started really laying into each other. It was near sunrise when he finally came back, still drunk and swaying. Siska had worked himself into a serious rage after waiting up most of the night - but the drawn, exhausted look on William's face stopped him short of yelling. "Is he gone?" William asked, leaning against the doorway as though he'd fall without its support. When Adam nodded he'd just said, "Okay," and crashed on the bed like a light going out.

None of them had been too happy at the time, but the Tom scenario starts looking pretty good by comparison when William still hasn't come back twelve hours after the latest meltdown.

The next day William still hasn't checked in and they start getting worried. Michael Guy and Butch begin trawling the bars and clubs in downtown LA; and Mike calls Tony in Chicago, thinking William might've flown back home to ask Christine for one more chance, or perhaps to punch out Bill.

Siska waits in the apartment in case William comes back. He spends most of the time pacing the room or flicking through the endless loop of cable tv channels while the Butcher watches him from the couch. "He doesn't even have a cell phone," he'll say, tapping the remote control nervously against his hand, and the Butcher will reply, "I know, Sisky."

The Butcher is a pretty patient guy but after the hundredth repetition, he cracks and says sharply, "I know, so could you please sit down, for like a minute already?" He pats the seat next to him. "Please?"

Which is how he ends up on the couch, the Butcher rubbing soothing circles on his shoulders and neck. "We're all worried, okay, but you need to chill out."

"I just think," Adam says, getting all loose and woozy as the Butcher's thumb works at a knot in his neck. "Like, what if it happened to me? If someone I loved- if I wasn't the one they-" He breaks off, glad that the Butcher can't see his face. "Anyway. I kinda know how he must feel, you know? Like he could do something crazy. Something really bad."

"I get it, Sisky," the Butcher says. His hands trail down and lightly clasp Adam's shoulders. "I do."

He turns around and pulls the Butcher into a hug. He buries his face in the Butcher's shoulder as the Butcher's arms wrap around him warmly. It's nothing they haven't done before but it feels different this time, like they're on the edge of something new.

"Hey, Sisky," the Butcher says, his voice muffled against Siska's neck. His mouth on Siska's neck moves in what feels almost like a kiss. "I know this is a really shitty time to say this but..."

"Yeah?" he says, a little out of breath.

The phone shrills and they jerk apart hastily.

Fuck. Siska scrambles for the receiver and snaps, "Yes?"

"Sisky, it's Pete." The reception's terrible, like Pete's in a snowstorm. "He called. He's in a hotel. You got a pen?"

The Butcher offers to stay behind. "I'll tell the others - you should go ahead and make sure he's okay. He won't want to see all of us at once anyway."

"But-" Adam hovers in the doorway. On the one hand, it's _William_ and he needs to be there, like right now. And on the other hand, he has the feeling that the Butcher was about to tell him something really, really important. "What were you gonna say?" he blurts out without meaning to. "Before the phone rang."

The Butcher turns faintly pink and says, "Later. I promise." He pushes Adam. "Go on. Hurry up!"

The hotel's one of a budget chain, not too far away from the beach at Santa Monica. William's room is on the second floor and he takes the stairs at a run. "William?" he says, hammering on the door. "Hey, are you there? It's me, Sisky."

After a moment he hears footsteps, the rattling of the door being unchained before it swings open with a creak.

"Hey," William says, somewhat sheepishly, rubbing his hand through his hair. His t-shirt is stained and there are circles under his eyes, but for the most part he looks okay. "Sisky."

"Jesus." He hugs William hard around the ribs before punching him in the shoulder, just as hard. "Why the fuck didn't you call? You asshole, you're lucky I didn't tell your mom!"

William shuffles back a step to let Adam into the room. They kick their way past pizza boxes and empty bottles to the bed where they sit, the cheap frame creaking beneath their weight.

"You okay, man?" He shoves aside a notebook covered in William's looping scrawl. "You wanna talk?"

"Yeah. I don't know. Maybe." With a groan William flops back, folding his arms beneath his head. "I guess it's just. We're almost the same. We're the same _person_. I mean, I get it," he says after a long moment, sounding lost. "But that just makes it even harder. I keep thinking, over and over, why did she choose him and not me?"

There's nothing to say to that so he doesn't.

They wait in silence until eventually William sighs and pushes himself to his feet. "Guess I'd better take a shower, huh?"

"Yes," he says emphatically. "You reek."

William ruffles his hair. "Shut up, Sisky." He goes into the bathroom and the door shuts.

After a moment Adam hears the sound of running water. And then, softly at first before slowly growing louder, he hears William start to sing.

They take a taxi back to the apartments where Mike and Michael Guy are waiting. William spends the drive back alternately looking out the window and scribbling lyrics in his notebook. Adam thinks he's gonna be alright.

When William's crashed out and sleeping off the last of his bender, he goes looking for the Butcher. He finds him in the street outside the apartment, smoking. "Hey," he calls out.

"Hey." The Butcher looks up and waves. "Where's William? Is he okay? I was just gonna come back upstairs."

"Yeah. He's sleeping. The Michaels are looking after him anyway. Actually," Adam scratches the back of his neck, "I was looking for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You were saying," he says, hopefully. "Before Pete called. I think you were saying something."

"Oh yeah." The Butcher stubs out the cigarette. He starts to turn pink again. "Right. Yeah, well, I forget. Sorry."

"What?" Siska says sharply. But he knows that expression on the Butcher. He's lying. It's exactly like that time a few weeks ago when he accidentally-on-purpose threw out Michael Guy's Vegemite and totally denied the whole thing. "Okay," he says with great cunning. "Fine. What if I were to jog your memory?"

"Jog it how?" the Butcher says, tilting his head.

"Like this," he says, and before the Butcher can step away he's pushed him back against the wall. "Remember, your arms were like _this_ ," he says, positioning the Butcher just so. "And I was like this," he says, and presses his cheek against the Butcher's shoulder. Maybe he grinds a little against Butcher's hips too. "Does this help?"

The Butcher coughs and mumbles, "Maybe."

" _You_ said, hey Sisky. Remember?" When there's no response he puts on his most threatening voice and gives the Butcher a little squeeze. "Come on. I am ready to stand here _all day_ like this if I have to."

The Butcher shakes a little in his arms. He's laughing. "You would too, wouldn't you? You're always so stubborn."

"Come on!" he almost shouts. And then more softly and hopefully more menacingly: " _Hey Sisky_. Remember?"

"Hey Sisky," the Butcher says, and his laughter feels like little earthquakes against Siska's chest. Or maybe that's just Siska's heart, beating a million miles an hour. "Hey Sisky, I forget what I was gonna say-"

"You dirty _liar_ ," and he whacks the Butcher one right in the arm. But he doesn't let go.

"- and ow, fucking ow," the Butcher says, speaking very fast now, "but what I wanna say right at this moment is, you're my favourite and can I kiss you?"

"No," Siska says loudly, "because you're a fucking idiot."

"Okay, I'm an idiot," the Butcher agrees peacefully. "So can I kiss you _now_?"

Siska thinks it over. "Well," he says, grudgingly. "Okay."

  


  


**2008: Hoffman Estates, Chicago**

Two nights before Siska's twentieth birthday the Butcher paints a picture.

He doesn't plan it or anything. It just comes on him like a fever in the night and he stays up till dawn to finish before finally crashing in the light of morning. When he stumbles back out of bed at two in the afternoon, he can barely remember doing the painting in the first place.

The painting's a diptych, two joined panels with each showing the same figure from a different angle. He squints at the canvas. Or maybe it's _two_ figures from the _same_ angle. He can't make up his mind, though he thinks it'll make a nice present. After it's dried he wraps it up in brown paper and string, ready for the trip to Chicago the following day.

He takes the early train in from Milwaukee and arrives just before eight in the morning. At Union Station he hops on the first available bus; the only other passenger is an old lady wrapped up in scarfs and dozing against the window.

Out in Hoffman Estates it's utterly quiet and still, blanketed in snow. He gets off the bus, hefting the wrapped canvas with one arm and his bag with the other. His breath comes out white and visible. It's three blocks to the Siska house and the only people he sees along the way are a bunch of kids throwing snowballs, a car or two whizzing by on the icy roads.

The Siska house is set some way back from the street, but the long path to the door is shovelled clear and there hasn't been enough snow overnight to cover it up again. As he stamps his boots on the front porch, the painting still awkwardly tucked under an arm, someone opens the door.

The Butcher looks up ready to say 'hi' when the words die in his mouth. Because this guy standing in the doorway is Sisky - but not his Sisky. He can't say how he knows it but he does. He feels the truth of it down to his very bones. _This is not the one he loves_. From the way the alter hangs back, he seems to know it too.

"Hey, Butcher," says Sisky's alter. He waves a mittened hand sheepishly. "Surprise. I'm Adam."

"Hey. What. Wait." The Butcher shakes his head slowly. "When did this happen?"

Adam shrugs. "Woke up yesterday and here I was, and there he was. Had some really weird dreams the night before though - I think you were in them. You were making something." Adam shrugs and he gives the Butcher a hug, a quick kiss on the ear. "You should go inside. Sisky's waiting for you." He steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets. "And I'm out of here."

"But where are you going?" the Butcher calls, watching Adam head towards the car parked in the driveway. "It's your birthday too."

"Dude, don't you already know?" Adam laughs and walks backward in the snow, eyes bright. "I'm gonna find the other you!"

Inside the house it's warm and quiet. He makes it upstairs without seeing anyone, goes to the room at the end of the hall. The door is slightly ajar but he knocks anyway before pushing it open.

Sisky's lying in bed. As the Butcher comes inside he turns towards the door and opens his eyes, says, "Hey." His hair is a mess and there's a bit of dried spit at the corner of his mouth, but the Butcher couldn't care less. _This_ is the one.

The Butcher lets out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Hey," he says, in a voice that's only a little croaky with relief. "Happy birthday, Sisky Biz. Made you a present." He puts the painting down next to the door.

"Oh, wow, awesome," Sisky says sleepily. He rubs at his eyes. "Thanks, man. What is it?"

The Butcher shrugs. "Just a painting. Something or other. You know."

"Sounds rad." Sisky yawns and stretches. "Well?" he says after a moment passes and the Butcher's still standing in the doorway. He pats the mattress. "You coming to bed or not? It's not even nine o'clock, man. Room for two if you want to catch some shut-eye."

"Okay." The Butcher smiles and starts to toe off his shoes. "Okay. Move over."


End file.
